


And I Swore He Had Wings

by misha_anon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Asexual Castiel, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Angst, Minor Gay Panic, No Sex, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_anon/pseuds/misha_anon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is injured in battle and a blue-eyed medic tends to his wounds.  Six months later, Dean finds himself face to face with the flesh-and-bone man he'd convinced himself was a figment of his imagination while convalescing at an Army hospital.  Their relationship blossoms as autumn turns to winter, but where they end up is nowhere near where Dean thought they would.  <i>(There is frequent mention of pain from injuries suffered in battle, but there is no graphic violence and there are no graphic descriptions of wounds or war.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Swore He Had Wings

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes on this one. :-) 
> 
> WWII is not my area of historical expertise and I didn't really worry about detailed historical accuracy or I would've bogged myself down in weeks of research to get everything perfect. So, please just take this as what it is: a story I wrote in two hours with minimal googling for the big stuff.
> 
> Also, I know it's not just as easy as saying "it'll be okay" when one partner is asexual and the other isn't, but we're just going to pretend that Dean and Castiel are _that_ in tune and it _will_ be okay because they love each other enough to find a way to make it okay. *u* I'm also aware that some asexuals aren't into touching or hand-holding or kissing at all, but the ace umbrella encompasses a wide variety of needs and experiences and I never intended this story to represent what appeals to everyone who identifies under it.
> 
> One last technical note: Men who returned visibly wounded from war in the first half of the twentieth century were often shunned and made to feel as though they were somehow less than men because of their injuries. Dean's views on the lingering effects of his injuries do not reflect my own, but are probably the most historically accurate thing about this whole story.
> 
> Last, but definitely not least, here's your WWII AU, Shana. It's probably not what you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. <3

"What's your name, soldier?"  

The first words Dean hears when he comes to are a rushed rumble.  Dean swallows as the pain shooting down the right side of his body threatens to steal consciousness again and forces his eyes open; a concerned blue gaze stares back, its owner's head wreathed by a halo of dark, messy hair.

"Are you an angel?"  Fear wells in Dean's chest as he adds thickly through the taste of blood, "Am I dead?"

"Being dead wouldn't hurt as much," the man answers matter-of-factly.  A wave of dizziness washes over Dean as the pain centers around his right thigh like a bone-crushing fist.  The dark-haired stranger's voice is a little softer as he pulls up each of Dean's eyelids in turn and leans in to study his eyes more closely, "I'm a medic.  Now, tell me your name."

"On my tags," Dean answers, trying to turn his head away from the bright sunlight that makes his head pound.

"You lost them," the medic says.  The next time he says "tell me your name" it's a  _command_.

"Winchester," Dean says as the medic gives his arms and left leg a quick once-over.  "Dean Winchester."  The man turns his attention to Dean's right leg, probing at his thigh and the last words Dean gets out before pain overtakes him again are, "Make sure my brother knows I died fighting."

***

Six months later, Dean hobbles down the front stairs of the Walter Reed Army hospital in Maryland to get to the bench where he likes to bask in the sunshine that comes with the mild, autumn afternoons; teeth gritted against pain and annoyance as he leans heavily against his cane to make the short journey.  He sits down gingerly and rubs his thigh the way the doctor showed him - long strokes of the heel of his hand to cajole the knotted muscles into relaxing - and sighing with relief when the pain in his leg settles to a dull roar.  

It eases enough that he can breathe, anyway, and that's better than most days.  As Dean leans his head back and closes his eyes, letting the sun warm his face, he hears a rustle of leaves on the ground.  Footsteps.  His breath quickens and he lifts his head quickly, looking around to pinpoint the threat.  

Before he finds the source of the crunching leaves, a voice he's sure he remembers from a morphine-induced dream rumbles, "Hello, Dean."  

Half a second later, someone sits down on the bench beside him and Dean can only stare.  The blue eyes are the same, and the messy hair; though the Army greens have been traded in for simple white clothing and he looks  _much_ less worried.  Dean says nothing, shocked into silence by the sudden appearance of someone he'd  _convinced_ himself had never existed at all.  When his greeting gets no response, the man tilts his head and studies Dean as though he's an unknown life form.

"You're the angel that saved my life," Dean says finally, his heart beating a little faster in his chest.

"I'm Castiel." The man smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth, "And, I'm _still_ not an angel."

“You sent a letter to my brother,” Dean says, recognizing the unusual name.  

A month after he’d been injured, Dean received a panicked letter from Sam that said a missive had arrived in Kansas from a medic relaying that Dean was “gravely wounded in battle” and that he’d wanted his family to know he was injured in the worst fighting his company had seen.The medic had assured Sam that Dean fought bravely and that his last thoughts on the battlefield had been about his family.The letter had closed with, “don’t give up hope that your brother will still return to you.”

“Thank you,” Dean whispers, his throat tight around the words he never thought he'd get to say to his guardian angel.  

Castiel nods acknowledgement and turns to stare out over the hospital's tree-covered grounds, eyes narrowed but a smile still touching the corners of his lips.  Neither man speaks another word as they sit side by side to enjoy the sun's warmth.

***

"Wait, you _can't_ go outside until you've had your medicine, Dean," Anna says, exasperation coloring her words as she reaches out to stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, where _is_ it?"  Dean is just as exasperated as he leans against his cane and waits.  She was supposed to bring his medicine ten minutes ago, and he has a standing date with a blue-eyed not-really-an-angel on the bench outside that starts  _now_.

"Slow down, tiger!" Anna laughs and gives Dean a saucy wink.  "A month ago I had to  _make_ you go outside and now I can't keep you  _in_."

Dean's cheeks heat with embarrassment and he takes a quick breath, standing up straighter.  His voice sounds a lot more defensive than he'd like when he answers, "I like the sun."

"First medicine, _then_ sun," Anna says sternly.  She turns to grab two pills and a cup of water from the tray on her desk.  Dean throws the pills onto his tongue and washes them down with water while she watches.  She smiles and takes the cup with a motherly, "Off you go, now.  Enjoy the sun."

When he makes it to his preferred bench, Castiel is waiting.  They exchange a smile; Dean's heartbeat quickening at the way Cas' face lights up.  Before he has a chance to sit down, Castiel asks, "How about a short walk today, Dean?"

A lump of fear settles in the middle of Dean's stomach.  He rarely walks further than this bench and, although his pain has lessened greatly since he started making  _that_ walk nearly every day, the memory of the all-consuming pain that came before has never left him.  He clutches the handle of his cane more tightly.

"Are - are you sure it's a good idea, Cas?"  Dean's voice cracks mid-sentence and he feels like a coward as he stands, shivering with fear in the late-autumn sunshine in front of a man ten times braver.

"We don't have to," Castiel says.  

Dean searches his words and tone for disappointment or annoyance, but finds nothing except a quiet proclamation that they don't _have_ to go for a walk.  The lump of fear slowly dissipates as Dean sits down beside Castiel.  They talk about Castiel's work with sightless soldiers in another wing of the hospital and the _Dick Tracy_ comic Dean has become addicted to and even as their hour together passes like every other, Dean feels his fondness for Castiel growing by leaps and bounds.  

While everyone else on the hospital's staff pushes Dean for information about what happened on that muddy spring day in Italy and tells him that he's capable of doing more than he does, Cas lets him talk about comics and maybe becoming a private investigator when he finally gets to go back to Kansas.  As Castiel's lunch hour winds down to its final moments, Dean reaches out tentatively to touch the back of his hand.  Castiel smiles and turns his hand over where it rests on his thigh, letting Dean's palm rest against his own.

***

In the three weeks since Castiel proposed they go for a walk together, Dean has been trying to force away the irrational fear that it will cause him dire pain.  Though Cas has never mentioned it again, it's constantly on his mind.  Also, in the past three weeks, Dean's confidence has grown from simply  _touching_ Castiel's hand to occasionally holding it - sweaty palms and all - as they sit together on the bench.  

It's a leap that's only made possible by the necessity of a light blanket to make sitting outside more comfortable as the days grow cooler.  Today, though, he leaves it on his bed.

"Where's your blanket?"  Castiel's question comes ahead of any form of greeting as he looks up at Dean from the bench.

"I thought," Dean says, forcing away the butterflies that flap relentlessly in his stomach and clutching his cane for dear life, "I thought maybe you wanted to go for a walk today."

Castiel grins and stands up in one easy motion, then smooths down his thick white shirt.  "I'd like that," he says simply.

They walk in silence for a few moments, Dean's chest squirming with embarrassment over his limp and slow, lumbering gait.  When he chances a look at Castiel, however, he sees nothing of the disgust that all too often colors other people's expressions when they look at him.

"I used to be a runner," Dean says self-consciously.  "In school.  And a jumper, too.  I won medals and set a Kansas schoolboy record for the high jump."

"Did you enjoy it?"  Castiel turns a little, puzzled frown on Dean; the same one that always pulls his face into an adorable mask of why-is-he-telling-me-this when Dean says something out of the blue.

"I- "

Dean pauses, limping beside Castiel as he studies the almost-bare branches and the few golden leaves that still cling stubbornly at the tips of some of them and considers the question.  No one ever asked him whether he  _liked_  being a competitive runner and jumper before.

"No," he answers finally, the realization just hitting him so many years later.  He nearly stumbles as a laugh breaks loose from somewhere deep inside, bubbling to the surface even as Castiel grabs his arm to steady him.  Dean's eyes water with the chilled wind and his own laughter as he says, "Jesus, Cas, I  _hated_  running every morning before the sun was even up."

"It's not that much of a loss then, is it?"

Castiel's words are quiet, almost a whisper.  Dean stops laughing, sobered by the fact that Castiel doesn't view him as less-than because of his injury.  Cas still holds Dean's arm, a light grip as their bodies sway together with Dean's every limping step.  The warmth of laughter is replaced by the warmth of acceptance.

"I think we should sit down," Dean says, his thigh starting to ache from their short walk.  There's another bench, this one surrounded by the natural shelter of shrubs; far away from the prying eyes of the rest of the hospital staff.  They sit more closely than normal, huddled against the cool of the day while Dean rubs at the tightened muscles in his thigh.  

Castiel's chin is on Dean's shoulder when he offers, "There's a better way to do that."  He pulls Dean's palm away and begins to massage gentle circles with his fingertips over the worst of the knot of muscles that overlie still-healing bone and the steel plate that holds it all together, working slowly outward.  "Relax," he whispers.  It's  _definitely_ a command.

Five minutes later the worst of the pain in Dean's thigh has subsided and he leans his head back as he murmurs a slightly rough, "I  _knew_ you were an angel."

"What  _do_ you enjoy doing?"  Castiel ignores Dean's statement, returning instead to their earlier conversation.

It's a strange habit Dean has become accustomed to and maybe even strangely fond of.  He bites his tongue on the first answer that leaps to mind ("spending time with you") and says, "When I first got here they let me paint to take my mind off the pain in my leg.  I enjoyed that."

"That sounds pleasant."

They spend the rest of Castiel's lunch on the walk back to the hospital; Cas' hand never straying from Dean's upper arm as he smiles fondly and listens to Dean’s stories of the perils of trying to paint animals you’ve never seen in real life.

***

When Dean returns to his tiny bedroom after breakfast the following morning, there's a box on his cot.  His first thought is that it's a package from his brother back in Kansas.  He gets one at least every other week.  He's  _told_ Sammy not to spend the money he earns working at the five and dime on him, but the kid is nothing if not hard-headed.  As he gets closer, though, he sees there's no address on the box.

Curious, he opens it to find a pack of watercolor paper and watercolors, three small canvases with a package of paints and paintbrushes, and an assortment of pencils.  On top of everything is a note that says:

 _Enjoy.  
_    _-C_

Dean rushes outside at the usual time, but Castiel never comes.  After two hours of sitting under his blanket waiting, Dean returns to his room.  Once his hands warm up enough to stop shaking, he sits down in the chair that faces the grounds and starts to draw.  Worry knots in his chest when he crawls into bed that night and for the first time in weeks, he dreams of too-bright sunlight haloing a dark-haired angel with impossibly blue eyes.

***

Castiel doesn't show up for their usual meeting the following day, or the one after that and as the hours stretch into days, Dean goes over every second of their interactions with a fine-toothed comb trying to figure out what he did wrong.  And, more importantly, why Castiel would give him a  _gift_  and then stop showing up if he had done  _anything_ wrong.

He almost doesn't bother going outside the next day.  It's cold and overcast and he knows Castiel won't be there anyway.  He looks down at the picture he drew last night that's still lying on the little metal table beside his cot.  If he squints, he can tell it's supposed to be a man with dark hair and blue eyes, his head surrounded by a halo of sunlight.

He's angry when he grabs his jacket off the chair and puts it on; angry with war and the unfairness of being made a worthless cripple in the prime of his life, but most of all with Castiel for giving him hope and then tearing it away.  He's angrier when he clutches the cane he so despises and starts to limp down the hallway that will take him to his lonely bench.

He was only supposed to be here for two months in the beginning, but then there were complications after the surgery on his leg.  More surgeries and more complications and then an infection that wouldn't go away.  Now, _eight months later_ , he's still stuck in Maryland when everyone he loves is in Kansas and the doctors still won't give a straight answer about when he can go home to them.

When Dean makes it outside, his anger has boiled over, tensing his body and making the usual ache in his leg into the sharp pain he remembers.  For once, he's glad for the pain because it reminds him of everything he's lost and all the reasons he has to be angry.  He stops when he sees Castiel's familiar silhouette sitting on the bench waiting for him.  

Before Dean even gets a word out, Castiel looks up and says, "Let's go for a walk."

He tries to protest that his leg hurts too much and anyway what right does Cas have to demand they go for a walk after not even bothering to show up for  _days;_ but, then he sees the lines of worry and fatigue that crease Castiel's face and he falls silent.

"I can't go far," Dean bites out between clenched teeth, gesturing to his leg.

"That's all right," Castiel answers with a faint smile, standing up and pulling his coat more tightly around his body.  Without a word, he takes hold of Dean's upper arm, adding support to ease the pain of walking.  Dean wants to be angry about _that_ , but he's grateful for both the support and Castiel's nearness.  They say nothing more as they make their way slowly to the same bench they visited last time.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says as soon as they sit down.

“For what?”Dean’s words are harsher than he really meant for them to be; Castiel recoils.

“For being scared,” Cas answers.

“I don’t understand,” Dean says, his anger slowly melting and his thoughts racing as he turns to look at the blue-eyed not-angel he’s grown so fond of.He watches while Castiel stares out at the black-barked trees that stand in contrast to the gray sky, eyes narrowed just as they were the first day they met on the bench in front of the hospital.Dean can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

“I’m not like you,” Castiel says finally, his voice hushed as he continues to stare at the bleak landscape.  

Dean’s heart races painfully behind his breastbone, his chest tightening until breathing is impossible as he puts two and two together.He doesn’t know why he never thought Castiel might be _straight_.Fear rises like bile in the back of Dean’s throat as his temperature shoots up ten degrees under his thick Army-issue coat. _Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT_ , is all he can think when Castiel falls into silence again, wetness shining in his eyes.How stupid could he _be_ as to not be sure that Cas was receptive to his affections before now.Dean tries to swallow down his panic, tries to find the words to beg Castiel to keep his secret between the two of them.

“Cas..” Dean starts, only to be cut off.

“I’m _broken_ , Dean,” Castiel says.He finally looks at Dean, now, tears threatening to spill over his lashes.“I think I’m in love with you, but I still don’t _want_ you.Not the way I can tell you want me.I thought..I thought if I took a few days to straighten my head out either I’d know for sure I _don’t_ love you, or I’d realize I _do_ want you but..”He gives a helpless shrug and looks away again.

“Wait,” Dean says, his brow furrowing as he tries to grasp what Castiel is saying.“You mean, you’re not..you’re not..you don’t want to..”He stops, flummoxed, and tries to find another way to ask.“Is it just me? Do you, you know, _want_ other people?Girls?”

“No,” Castiel answers miserably, reaching up to rub his eyes.“No one, ever.”His voice shakes when he adds, “I’ve never thought I _loved_ anyone before, either.”

“Oh,” Dean says.He’s _heard_ of guys who don’t want sex, but he never thought he’d _meet_ one.Castiel’s long, delicate fingers still cover his eyes, rubbing furiously and Dean is torn between giving him the privacy he seems to need and trying to reassure him.He finally decides on the latter, reaching up to pull Castiel’s hand away from his eyes as he says, “Cas, listen..”

Castiel opens his eyes slowly as the sun starts to peek through the clouds overhead.His blue eyes are red-rimmed and somehow even more beautiful in the still slightly muted light; almost like Dean’s squint-to-see-it drawing.Dean meets his gaze and lets their cold fingers slip together as he tries to decide what to say next, sensing that whatever it is could be either the end of their story _or_ the beginning of a new chapter.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says again, a hoarse whisper.

“Don’t,” Dean says.“Don’t apologize.”

Castiel nods and sniffs; then wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his coat.

“Do you like holding my hand?”Dean decides to start on what feels like safe ground.

“Yes,” Castiel answers quickly.“I like..I like it when you touch me.And I like to touch you.”He looks away and swallows, a faint pink coloring his cheeks as he looks back and adds shyly, “I even think about _kissing_ you sometimes.”

Dean can’t help grinning at the admission.He squeezes Castiel’s hand more tightly and lets their linked fingers rest on his thigh, for once able to ignore the ache almost completely.He thinks he’s finally getting the picture.His voice is soft when he asks, “You just.. you don’t want to have sex with me?”

“No,” Castiel answers, his eyes tightening again, though Dean’s not sure if it’s from the threat of a new round of teary-eyes or the brightening sun.

“We don’t have to,” Dean pronounces, surprising himself by _meaning_ it.

“But - “

“We _don’t_.”

Castiel leans in and brushes a chaste, clumsy kiss against Dean’s lips.He pulls away quickly, his cheeks pinker than before as he gives Dean a relieved smile and presses their foreheads together.

“But,” Dean adds as the pain in his leg reminds him that a stroll through the woods might not have been the best idea, “you _might_ need to carry me back to my room unless you’re planning on a kiss-and-run.”

Castiel chuckles and presses another clumsy kiss, his chapped lips lingering on Dean’s for a second this time before he whispers, “I think I’m finished running away.”

“Good,” Dean says, nuzzling his cold nose against Castiel’s; Cas responds in kind.

 


End file.
